


You shall not steal

by Mikaeru



Series: The Ten Commandments [4]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Bratty Crowley (Good Omens), Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dom/sub, M/M, Spanking, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Subspace, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), with a switch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:53:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23138002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: “Are you going to behave for me?”“The fuck I will,” Crowley replied, “do your worst.”“Oh, rest assured I will.”Crowley was feeling like playing hard to catch. It ended exactly as he wanted.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The Ten Commandments [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1645069
Comments: 8
Kudos: 141
Collections: COW-T - the Clash Of the Writing Titans





	You shall not steal

**Author's Note:**

> Come say hi on [my tumblr](http://bebrave-andbekind.tumblr.com)!!!  
> Written for this week's COW-T M2, the prompt I chose was "aftselakhis", that means "wanting to do something just because someone told you not to" in Yiddish.

Maybe it was the sun – open and hot on his skin, whispering sweet promises of a long-awaited summer – or maybe it was Aziraphale whistling – some forgotten melodies, something he had learned during the years apart – or maybe the pomegranate scent; he didn't know why, didn't care, because the game was on. He stretched on the bed, yawning and arching his back. He got up, opened their closet, and put one of his husband's shirt on, the darkest one he had – night sky blue with shiny grey buttons – and down in the kitchen he was, barefooted, arms around Aziraphale's waist, chin on his shoulder. Aziraphale kissed him on the cheek, after Crowley had squeezed his hand; _I know you're playing_ , he replied, _and now I am too_.

“Whatcha doing, angel?”

“Pomegranate preserve, darling, since we have so many of them. Next I'm thinking about something with apples and cinnamon, since you liked your porridge so much, the other day.”

“Mmmh, yes, thank you,” he said, nibbling Aziraphale's ear, “you take such good care of me, love...”, he continued, slithering his hands under Aziraphale's shirt. He drew little circles with his ring finger, making Aziraphale humming in agreement. “And I take good care of you, don't I?”

“Oh, yes, dear, I certainly can't complain.”

“Mh-mh...”, he murmured, kiss after kiss after kiss. Aziraphale kept on mixing the preserve, bubbling and sticky sweet.

“Aren't we affectionate this morning, love.”

“Yeah, I think I dreamed of you...”

“Did you?”

“Mh-mh...”, he murmured again, voice liquid and adoring, letters melting on the thin hair behind Aziraphale's neck, “we were having a picnic under a - a lemon tree, I think, or an oak, I don't remember, and you were kissing me and kissing me, and holding my waist like I was something fragile and precious... twas good, you know, it left me all tingly inside...”

He was keeping his voice low, lovely and deep, like a tree shadow in August. He had lipstick on, so he was leaving bright red memories on his neck, behind his ears.

“Tingly? Oh, I can see that.”

“Do you think I am? Fragile and precious?”

He started to move his hips, slightly grinding against the cleft of his angel's arse.

“Oh, for sure, the most precious thing ever.”

“And fragile, too?”, he breathed on the nape of his neck, kissing on the bone underneath the skin. Aziraphale let out a breathy moan, shuddering.

He turned around, took Crowley by the waist, and hauled him on the sink. He made him spread his legs, started peppering kisses like bruises, like bites with the tiniest bit of fangs. He kissed Crowley on his lips, cheeks, forehead, chin, and Crowley kissed him back, hungry and heated, smearing lipstick all over his face.

“You look good in red, angel,” he panted. Crowley's voice was already a loose wire, threatening to snap at every contact. But when Aziraphale slid one had down Crowley's pants, he pushed him away. He pouted and crossed his thighs.

“I don't think I'm really in the mood, angel,” he said in that petulant tone of him that drove Aziraphale mad. “I just wanted a bit of a snogging is all.”

“Oh,” replied Aziraphale, trying to kiss him again, but Crowley slapped his hands.

“I said no. Are you going to force me? Bad, bad angel,” he smirked, unfastening the first button of his shirt. Aziraphale sighed, little lust clouds puffing around his head.

“No, of course not, darling. I'm sorry.”

“So,” he smacked his lips, and they were red again, “can I have a bit of that preserve? It smells wonderful and I'm a little bit hungry.”

“Not yet, love, it's piping hot.”

“I'm a demon, I can stand hot.”

“Yes, but -”

Aziraphale didn't have the chance to say anything else, as Crowley shove a finger in the pot. It, of course, burned, and Crowley howled; he was about to snap his (not burned) fingers, but Aziraphale was faster, blocking the little miracle Crowley wanted to use to ease the pain.

“Don't be mean, angel, I'm hurt” he pouted, lip sticking out. Aziraphale scowled for a total of three seconds, before giving up and kiss the smallest of blisters, making it disappear. Crowley beamed and kissed him, a chaste peck on the lips. “Love you, angel,” he smiled, getting off the sink. He shuffled to their living room, swaying his hips as he did. Aziraphale sighed again, turning back to his preserve.

The room had light grey floor and glass walls, potted plants in the corner, an old, comfortable, flower patterned sofa, a lovely armchair on which Crowley was often curled up as a snake or on Aziraphale's lap in human form. Although Crowley had picked the house, supervised all the renovations and even picked up sinks and bathtubs, all the furniture were of Aziraphale's taste – old, heavy, at least one century old, as they spent an awful time jumping from fly market to fly market in and outside London, even outside England – and so all their rooms ended up being clashing. But they got used to it, and they even mocked each other about that. (“Oi, angel, I saw a bedspread I think you'd like, it was almost new, they left it near the organic waste bin, d'ya want me to pick it up for you?”, “Oh, dear, it just crossed my mind, yesterday Agatha told me all about the new craft project of his nephew, you remember Joseph, he's in fourth grade? It's made of steel and barbed wire, he's such a creative child, so much energy to let out, I'm sure his masterpiece would look so good on your nightstand.”)

Crowley was on his side on the sofa, cocooned in his wings, drifting in and out of sleep. In those days he liked having his wings out, shiny and sleek like a raven's. There weren't humans around for miles, they always had to drive to the next village for bread and cheese and carrots and that caramelized onions hummus Aziraphale had recently become addicted to. So, even when he changed into a snake in the middle of the garden (he had found out it was peculiarly cathartic to slither on the apple tree, bite the apples and make them fall in a mush) nobody was there to witness it. He was now stroking some of his feathers in a movement he had always found extremely self soothing. He wasn't nervous, now, he just liked the sensation, the light touch.

“Are you all right, darling?”, asked Aziraphale. Crowley turned his head and smirked. He could smell his salted caramel green tea, and he was suddenly tempted to just curl up in his arms. Alas, he was a demon with a mission, and that mission was taking Aziraphale to his breaking point.

“Sure, angel, I'm alwayssss all right,” he grinned, unfurling his wings, almost knocking Aziraphale's mug over. “Oops. Didn't do it on purpose.”

“Of course you didn't, darling.”

“Well? What are you standing there for?”

“I was hoping someone would invite me to sit near him.”

Crowley chuckled. “Am I not inviting enough for your liking?”

He could see himself through his eyes; one leg dangling, shirt unbuttoned to his bellybutton, chest and stomach exposed and calling for a bite. But Aziraphale just gulped, maintaining his composure.

“You are, but I don't want to impose. You seem so comfortable on the sofa, I think I'll choose the chair.”

He sat down and immediately Crowley scrambled to climb on his lap. Aziraphale had to let go of his mug, placing it on the table near him. Crowley smiled, cheekily, and started kissing his neck. “Read me something, angel,” he asked in a purring tone, nudging him. Aziraphale, an arm around his waist (how strong were his arms, how Crowley loved biting them, scraping them with his teeth and nails, almost as much as he loved marking his pale back, wide and welcoming and, frankly, asking for it), started reading, a worn book suddenly in his free hand. He had those ridiculous little eyeglasses, he looked like one of those dumb middle school teachers who cared too much about one of their most troubled students and ended up being rejected by their love interest in all those stupid movies Crowley surely did not enjoy watching at two in the morning.

“I cannot make speeches, Emma... If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am,” he started, but Crowley pinched his thigh.

“You're cheating!” he said, outraged, “You're not reading _Emma_ and surely you're not reading that part.”

“You don't know what I'm reading, you're not looking at the book in my hand.”

“Well, it's not _Emma_. You finished it yesterday, and you don't read a book twice in a row, you say it's a waste of time.”

“Oh, so you did your homework.”

“Mph,” he snorted, “Show me what you're really reading.”

With a smile, Aziraphale turned the book to him, revealing the cover of a vintage copy of Casino Royale, all cracked and smudged. Crowley made a sound that was dangerously similar to a squeak. “When did you buy it?”

“Well, soon after you started moaning about how Daniel Craig's Bond was, as you said, _shit_.”

“I didn't say that.”

“Oh, you're right, you said _pure shite_.”

“I did not! I just said it wasn't the movie I expected, that's all! And why is it so old if you bought it like fifteen years ago?”

“Because I didn't want a copy with Daniel Craig's face on the cover, and this one was lovely and waiting for me in that darling little charity shop in Roman Road.”

“Well, chop chop. Read it to me. And do the voices.”

“Of course.”

Crowley started again to kiss his neck, to tickle him with one of his wings. That was always an open invitation, as there were few things Crowley enjoyed more than his husband's touch on his wings, how he gripped the feathers, how he scratched that heavenly spot where the bones fused with his shoulder blades. And right there went Aziraphale's hand, slightly dragging his nails on the sensitive skin. Purple moans escaped Crowley's mouth, his back already shuddering.

“You're lovely, my dear,” he murmured with a cotton candy voice. He kept on, slightly pressing. He moved on smoothing out Crowley's feathers, holding them between his fingers, sinking them to stroke the bones of his wings, fishing sharper cries out of Crowley's mouth.

“You're so very lovely, my beloved darling,” he repeated, as Crowley started to move on him, “I'd very like to fuck you right now. Would you like that?”

He didn't reply but, as before, when Aziraphale slithered a hand down his pants, Crowley straightened his back, ceasing any contact.

“Don't wanna. Gonna take a bath instead. And you're not invited.”

Crowley slid off his lap once again, leaving him hungry and waiting. He smirked. Just another brush stroke.

He came down to find Aziraphale in the same chair as before, and this time his wings were out.

“You don't show 'em much. To what do I owe the honour?”

“Yourself, dear. I saw you and I thought I'd stretch them.”

“And they're a mess as usual, it's shameful.”

“Well, we do have a brush.”

“Spoiled cherub.”

Aziraphale shrugged, not looking up from his book.

Crowley had bought a wooden brush specifically for this task, the only old thing he owned. It was sturdy, its bristle soft. He started to brush his angel's wings, which smelled of dust and citrus.

“Don't pick them up from the floor, I warn you.”

Aziraphale was weirdly possessive about his feathers; once Crowley had kept one which had fallen and Aziraphale didn't speak to him for a day. Obviously he was going to do the exact opposite of what he was told. The feathers found their place in his hair, behind his ear, in one of the buttonhole. He was eagerly waiting for the moment Aziraphale would find out.

“Why don't you ask me to clean them up more often, angel? I could do it once a month, at least they wouldn't end up all tangled.”

“You never asked.”

“Yes I did, and you took offence as if I said I preferred _Hunger Games_ to _The portrait of Dorian Gray_.”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes – Crowley could sense it even if he couldn't see him – but his shoulders were relaxed, and every drop of tension was leaving his body.

“All done,” declared Crowley, kissing his neck. “I'm out in the garden.”

“Put some trousers on, before.”

“I will not.”

“Darling -”

“What, who's looking? God? She knows how I look, She made me. And I don't think ravens and seagulls are very interested in my arse.”

And then Aziraphale actually saw him, saw his white feathers shining on his husband. “Crowley.”

He ignored him until he called him again, voice harshening. “Yes, angel?”

“I said not to pick them up.”

“And I decided it was dumb.”

“You don't get to decide if what I say is dumb. You just have to listen.”

“Says who? You a king, angel?”

“You have to listen.”

“I don't have to do shit.”

Oh yes, yes, _yes_ , Aziraphale was inhaling sharply, his features hardening, the ghost of the soldier he was all over his body “Come back right this instant, Crowley.”

“No. I want to be in the garden. I'm busy, I have plants to tend to,” he lied, as they had been thoroughly terrified the day before.

“Come. Here.”

“Gar. Den.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and the feathers were gone.

“Oh, you want to be out so much? Well, your wish is my command, dove.”

Using a bit of angelic force, Aziraphale bent him against the apple tree in the centre of the garden. He didn't touch Crowley, not even with a single finger, and Crowley moaned with his lips shut. He started thrashing, howling how mean Aziraphale was, how he just wanted to mess with him, he was just playing, hadn't he any sense of humour? He was a stuffy, boring angel, the absolute worst.

“Yes, love, I'm a horrible monster,” and with that, Crowley's pants slid down his legs, making him gasp. Aziraphale didn't take his shirt off: he didn't want him naked, he wanted him _humiliated,_ chastised, and there were few things more humiliating than having his pants pooled at his feet like a misbehaving child, arse sticking out, fresh grass under his feet, the sky blue and bright, white clouds scattered like marbles. He heard the snap of a branch being cut from the tree; he was getting switched. It had been ages since the last time.

Aziraphale was now behind him, and Crowley could breath his scent, soothing and pungent, tickling. He felt his angel's breath against his ear, when he said: “Spread your legs, let me see you properly.” Oh, how Crowley loved that voice, firm, steel shiny. Goosebumps grew all over his skin, inside his bones.

“Make me,” he spat and, exactly as he wished, Aziraphale made him, sticking a knee between his thighs, nudging them open.

“Be still. I'm going to make you count each and every one of your well-deserved lashes. Every number you miss, I'll add five more.”

Every cell in Crowley was screaming _Yes, yes, yes_. With a sharp sound and an even sharper pain, the first strike landed on his cheeks. “One!”, he shrieked, heat spreading from his collarbones. Three in rapid order, he could feel his skin reddening, and hoped for bruises. “Huuuuuurts!”, he whined, hoping that Aziraphale would reward him with stronger blows, “Release me at once!”, and Aziraphale happily complied with his wordless wish, and Crowley shouted, almost scratching his throat.

“I don't think so, sweetheart.”

“You're skinning me alive!”

“You're always so dramatic,” he sighed, keeping on. The switch was thin and cruel, lethal even, and Crowley's pleasure was a deep crimson, mollifying him. It was getting harder to stand, but he wanted to see the end of his punishment, wanted to be unable to sit for a week. He could always use Aziraphale's lap as a chair, soft and plump as it was. Or stay in bed for days, getting pampered all the time. Aziraphale always spoiled him after a scene; it wasn't like he felt guilty, as he thoroughly enjoyed bouts of rough sex from time to time, he just liked having an excuse to snuggle with him and massage his shoulders, his calves, his hands.

Aziraphale started to whip him under the curve of his arse, and Crowley howled; with the tip of the switch, Aziraphale brushed the soft meat of his inner thighs. “Are you going to behave for me?”

“The fuck I will,” Crowley replied, “do your worst.”

“Oh, rest assured I will.”

The twig never broke, as Crowley didn't want it to. The buds stung like hell, and he was positive they would leave bruises. Oh, how much he loved that kind of pain, pressing his fingers on the purple spots, and how Aziraphale pressed his tongue on them during the days after.

“I'm not hearing you. How many did you count?”

“Fuck you. Did your hear that?”

A blow that stung much, much more than the others. Crowley was sure there was the tiniest bit of heavenly fire.

“Thirty one! I counted thirty one!”

“Another nineteen, then.”

“That's too many!”, he lied, because he was willing to go on all day long. “Stop it! It hurts! It hurts!”

“Are you ready to say you're sorry?”

“I'm not sorry!”

“Then why should I stop?”

“Because I'm asking you to!”

“And why should I care?”

He groaned loudly, shuddering under that detached tone, as if Aziraphale wasn't affected in the slightest. He knew how hard his angel was, how fiercely he wanted to take him against the tree, and he loved how his voice was intact, crystal clear. Everything was so perfect it was almost unreal.

“Nineteen to go.”

Sharp sounds, sharper pains. He craved every blow, was captivated by the mere half second between them and the swish of air, loved it too, growing harder with anticipation. He counted out loud, voice raw and electric, but he lost himself after the first five. Suddenly the world went blurred and fuzzy, clouded. He felt his body as if it was made of cotton candy. At some point he heard his angel's voice, calling him, but talking was too much labour, too heavy. Forehead against the bark of the tree, he rejoiced when his angel touched his neck, his back.

“Love?”, Aziraphale called, and Crowley had barely the strength to nod. “Oh, I have my darling again,” he kissed his words, Crowley's nape, his ears. Crowley was halfway gone under, eyes glossy and eyelashes fluttering.

“Come here, my sweet. Let get you back inside”

He took his hand, guided him on his knees in front of the armchair. Aziraphale sat down, miracled a cushion under his husband, and Crowley was looking at him with huge eyes, honey amber and shiny, his lips slightly parted. Aziraphale unfastened his trousers, taking his erection in hand. Crowley opened his mouth, welcomed him in. Aziraphale let out a shuddering moan, as Crowley started to stroke his inner thighs with his lovely, slender hands, cold against his warm skin. Aziraphale's own fingers found their purpose in the demon's coppery hair, which he didn't grip just yet – just caressing it, drawing little circles on his scalp.

“Oh, look at you now, all quiet and pliant. You just needed a firm hand, didn't you? My poor little serpent. I should spank you every night, just to keep you calm. What do you think about that? On my knees, your sweet bottom bared, crying and begging and so deliciously helpless...”

He kept on petting Crowley's head, carding his fingers through his hair, as Crowley slowly licked him, sucked on the tip of his cock. He was sloppy, too wet, but Aziraphale liked it that way, during those kind of scenes – as something amateurish, something he wasn't so good at. Something casual, something innocent. He came in Crowley's mouth with a satisfied sound.

“I think it's time for a nap even for terrible little brats,” he softly said, and Crowley nodded, eyes twinkling. It wasn't the end, but now he was too tired.

Crowley woke up rested, surrounded by pillows and blankets. Before he could lament that he wasn't a bird and a nest wasn't necessary, he saw Aziraphale standing up, too far away from the bed, and Crowley missed him like a limb, in that clear way romance heroines missed a more fulfilling love at the beginning of their story. He whined his name, but before Aziraphale could go back to the bed, Crowley was in his arms, legs around his waist. He bit his neck, his ears, kissed him ferociously, as he would eat him up.

“Fuck me”, he growled, As hard as you can.”

“Are you ready to behave for me?”

“First fuck me, then we'll see.”

“Good enough for now.”

Aziraphale sat down on the bed, took his shirt and pants off the human way and, when Crowley was about to kneel, he took him back on his legs, started to grind against his arse. Crowley, not forgetting the part he was playing, pouted so hard it was almost physically annoying.

“What now, dear?”

“Don't wanna ride you. You were supposed to, like, throw me around Fuck me from behind. Thought it was clear.”

“You should have been less of a terror. Today you're getting only what I'm gracious enough to give you. Be nice and don't complain, or you're getting the tawse this time.”

“But I -”

A slap on the cheek, not a brutal one but strong enough to leave a handprint. That was a welcome surprise. It didn't sting, but left Crowley speechless.

“You're not the boss today, Crowley. I am,” He gripped his hair, made him show his neck like a prey. Aziraphale opened his mouth to bite him, but didn't; his teeth were mere millimetres away from Crowley's skin, with a threat to draw blood. “Now work for it, darling, unless you want to taste the new bar of soap I've just bought.”

A low purr escaped from his throat. He was sure his eyes went full snake, as he was feeling less constricted in his human body, more feral. Arms tightly around his husband's neck, he started to grind harder and swiftly prepared himself with two fingers and finally – _finally_ – slid on Aziraphale's cock, letting out a cry full of red powder. He quickly starting to ride it, pushing on it; Aziraphale didn't move an inch, just held him by the waist. Oh, how beautiful Crowley was, he said, how pretty, how precious, bouncing like that, moving his hips that way. Was he fully conscious about how tempting he was? How could Aziraphale allow him to stroll outside, to walk without a leash, without a collar around his neck? He should mark him, tag him. He should beat him until it was clear who his husband was, how Crowley was his thing.

“Do you promise? I want a split lip, a – AH! - a necklace of bruises -”

Yes, yes, anything he wanted, anything he needed, if only could make him come in the next two minutes. A challenged Crowley was a happy Crowley; he pressed harder on him, kissed him fiercely and hungrily, licked and scraped his nipples, his back, and squeezed an orgasm out of him in under a minute and an half.

“Touch me, please, I -”

“I will not, Crowley. But you're welcome to rub against me.”

He trapped his cock between his and his husband's stomach, moving almost hysterically until he came. He reached that foggy headspace again, and started gently floating. Aziraphale's voice was far away, out of reach; he barely heard the praise his angel usually bathed him with, how well he did, how obedient he was, and as much as Crowley wanted to be slightly put out by that gentle tone – he was still supposed to be stern, mean to him – he shivered under all the compliments. He whined when he felt Aziraphale's absence inside him, but nevertheless curled up against him when they laid down. “Stay here,” he ordered, “Don't clean me. Wanna be sticky.”

“Your wish is my command,” he last heard, before drifting to sleep.

He was again on his husband's lap before being completely conscious. His body was linked to Aziraphale's as much as his soul was. Aziraphale circled his waist, inhaling the scent of his neck.

“Hi,” he said, sweet and coquettish.

“Hi there, my love,” Aziraphale replied, kissing him on the cheek, “how are we feeling?”

“Sticky.”

“You wanted it.”

“Know.”

“And are you ready to behave for me?”

“Dunno.”

Aziraphale chuckled, kissing his temple. “How silly of me, thinking I can tame the serpent of Eden.”

“Yesssss, you're ssssssilly.” he hissed, exaggerating his speech, “but I'm all out of bratting, so we're ending it here.”

“As long as you're happy. Did I do well?”

“Exceptionally so, angel.”

“Not too harsh?”

“Nope.”

“Are you hurt?”

“Marvellously so.”

“I'm happy to hear it, love.”

“What about me? Did I do well?”

“You were the naughtiest street urchin I've ever witnessed.”

“So, good?”

“Yes, my darling, it was delightful.”

Crowley nestled his head in the crook of Aziraphale's neck. “'m a good actor. Do we have strawberries? I feel like strawberries.” He knew his corporation needed food, especially after a scene that intense – his angel rather insisted - and Aziraphale made sure there was plenty at every time in their house.

“Sure, we bought them Wednesday.”

“Can you, like, miracle them here?”

“Sure,” and he did in a blink of an eye. He proceeded to hand feed Crowley, who chewed slowly, almost mindfully. “Do you need anything else?”

“I didn't really take a bath earlier. Do you feel like a bath with me?”

“Dearest, I went to the end of the world with you. There's not, in all of existence, somewhere I wouldn't be with you in.”

Crowley's laugh was a tiny puff, yellow and light. “You're such a sap.”

“Thank you. Do I have to miracle us in the bathtub?”

“Yeah. You're in charge today, aren't you?”

“Cheeky thing,” Aziraphale snickered, but snapped his fingers. The sky was violet and welcoming, the birds were going to bed, and oceanic waves of love started radiating from the house.


End file.
